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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29935455">Bellerophon Falls</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5th Wave Adjacent, A lot of deep conversations about human nature, Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Ambiguous Relationships, Demons, Dubious Morality, Gen, Mad Scientists, Other, Science Experiments</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:21:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29935455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Faster. Stronger. More deadly than anything on earth. No one knows where they came from, appearing one day out of the mist and taking normal life with them.</p><p>Zac, a behavioral psychologist, is tasked by the remains of the U.S. Army to attempt to communicate with one of the creatures, and perhaps even reason with them.</p><p>Bad is one of Them. </p><p>Zac and Bad forge a dangerous connection that threatens the remainders of civilization and redefines what it truly means to be human.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexis | Quackity &amp; Zac Ahmed, Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound &amp; Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Darryl Noveschosch &amp; Zac Ahmed, Georgenotfound &amp; Clay | Dream, Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/>
<p>
  <em>"It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>-William </em>
  <em>Shakespeare</em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> ҉　 ҉　 ҉　</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was midnight when the cat started mewling. </p><p>It paced back and forth down the hall, bristling angrily and dragging its claws across the newly installed wallpaper, agitated by something that the people couldn't see. Frightfully and abnormally upset, it slunk towards the glass sliding doors in front of the patio and watched. Its tail twitched anxiously, green eyes inspecting the dark shapes of trees and blades of grass. There was something else, something that the pale light of the moon could not illuminate, and yet the cat knew. The cat knew something was coming.</p><p>The woman woke to the sound of the cat's administrations, hushing her baby and her husband as she padded into the living room. She berated the animal, sighing. So unlike the usually quiet creature to disturb their sleep. So unlike it. </p><p>Perhaps that was why she paused, her own eyes drifting to the patio, to the darkness beyond it. Some deeper, human urge to protect herself, that struggled to be heard against years of civilized rationality. The blinking, balking part of her brain that looked into the dark and said <em>run. </em>But she'd never faced down a wild animal or dealt with the hunger that came from a harsh winter, so she moved through her middle class suburban home, and locked the cat in its carrier, a plush thing reserved for vet visits.</p><p>The cat fell silent, and she smiled with faint satisfaction. Perhaps the poor thing would get some sleep, now that it was out of direct eye contact with whatever had spooked it. For some reason, as she returned to the living room though, she shied away from the glass door. A faint smile of amusement on her lips, as she firmly turned her back to it. Just discomfort with the dark, is all it was. She didn't make a habit of poking around at night, so that was all. She rationalized away as she kissed her sleeping babies' forehead and crawled back into bed with her husband.</p><p>She fell asleep, despite the cat's continued wails, and would never wake up again. It was 12:30 when it was all over. </p><p>When the soldiers arrive to the neighborhood, there is not a soul left alive. The cookie-cutter, perfect suburb has turned into a nightmare. Blood and gore fills each identical street, bits of spongy pink matter smeared on every surface. "Jesus <em>fuck</em>," the commander breathes, staring at the mutilated body in the street. "Did they get <em>everyone?" </em></p><p>"Sir!" The commodore yells, there's a blur and the quick flash-bang of the rifle. The creature falls to the ground, twitching at the commander's feet. Breathing harshly, he steps away from the body, unsure that it's dead. </p><p>"They're still here," he says, voice numb with horror as he inspect the thing. He shakes himself, turning away from the oozing black sludge that the creature emits. "Fan out, bring any survivors back to the compound. If you see any of those things..." his voice trails off once again, fisting his hand on his rifle. "Shoot to kill." </p><p>There's a dull thudding on the otherwise silent streets as the soldiers begin to raid through the houses. Occasionally, a dull <em>pop</em> can be heard, the sound of a creature being shot. Sometimes there is the death-cry of a soldier when a creature gets to them before they can be killed. But there are no survivors. </p><p>Until one house is entered, the private nudges through the swinging door. A cat starts up mewling from its blood-spattered carrier. And a second one sitting next to it. The private has a cat at home, takes pity on it, lets it out. The cat's green eyes study him, only for a moment, before both animals slink away. </p><p>The house was once very clean, perhaps even as early as that morning. But now, organs, blood, shattered glass, it has become the stuff of horror. The private's stomach turns, he hasn't seen stuff like this since he was on the front lines. He wants to leave, being here, when one of the creatures could be so close, well it makes his skin crawl. He turns to do just that, when he hears a cry, a <em>human</em> cry, from the other room. </p><p>The private steels himself, trudging forward to the door. A bloody handprint has been made against it, as if someone pushed it closed. As if someone wanted to protect what was inside. </p><p>It's like whiplash, entering the nursery. There's still a soft white noise playing in the background. Soft, plush toys litter the ground and a story-book is strewn on the floor half open. The noise comes from the crib, the dark haired child crying inside. "Holy shit..." The private whispers, hurrying to the babies' side. Clumsy, frantic, hands grasp his walkie talkie. "I found one!" He gasps. "I found a survivor."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zac is pacing.</p><p>He paces a lot, chews at his lips, gnaws his fingers raw. It’s a bad habit, one he’s never been able to break, always needing to get the nervous energy <em>out, </em>something that’s very difficult these days.</p><p>And besides, he has good reason to be nervous, he figures. There’s The Letter on his desk, and he doesn’t want to reread The Letter. No. Much easier to go through the day as usual. Push out of the standard issue cot in the college dorm room-turned millitary barracks. Shuffle down the hall and try to ignore eye contact. Take a frigid shower in the weak spray of water. Toss on a hoodie and a government issued ID so you’re not shot on sight.</p><p>He’s pacing outside now.</p><p>The dead, yellowing grass crunches under his feet. He can remember a time when it was green, probably when he first arrived at the compound, definitely when the compound used to be a college. He wonders if the compound was prettier when the grass was green and there was no net covering the sky. It’s a trivial thing to wonder about because he knows it was, it definitely was, he just doesn’t want to think of The Letter.</p><p>What were they thinking, anyhow? He isn’t great at his job, only managing two years of tentative schooling before the second wave arrived and life collapsed. Maybe he’s the last even slightly qualified person left? That thought makes him shudder so he avoids it. Packs it up in the box with thoughts about The Letter.</p><p>What’s their end goal anyway? 2/3 of the population has been wiped out, there’s no use returning to ‘the way things were.’ Why can’t they just be content with not dying? Why did they need to rope <em>Zac </em>in with their heroics?</p><p>He hadn’t even realized he’d come to the edge of the compound. He stands before the massive, electrified fence, staring out at the maybe 30 meters of dead grass that stretches beyond before it meets cracked asphalt and transitions into a road that no one uses anymore. He stands there for a moment, trying to determine if he can feel his skin prickling. That was one of the signs they always talked about; when one of Them was nearby, you’d always feel off, uncomfortable. Some part of you knew to <em>run. </em>But he doesn’t feel anything so he gives a shake and begins jogging back to his dorm.</p><p>The faint sound of birdsong rings in his ears, as Zac takes the long way back to his dorm. His hurried pace makes his legs burn, but he doesn’t want to break into a full sprint for fear of alerting any of the soldiers doing their morning drills. He almost feels their eyes upon him, his mind irrational, assuring him that they <em> know, </em>they know about The Letter, and they are furious at him for wanting to refuse.</p><p>His face is dry and aching by the time he makes it back to his dorm, his roommate barely offers a glance when he comes in. The dorms weren’t big enough to hold all the civilians, even though only a handful had made it to the compound. Most people had one or two roommates, the unlucky ones could have up to three. Zac considers himself a lucky one, considering he only has one. A strange, quiet guy named George. He hardly hears the man speak a word, and he’s ninety percent sure he hasn’t left his bed since he came to the compound.</p><p>“Morning, George,” He rasps, hoping his wind-raw voice sounds friendly. George inclines his head sighty, burrowing deeper into his sheets.</p><p>“What’s the letter for,” George asks simply, the faintest threads of his british accent coasting through. He doesn't sound terribly interested. </p><p>“The letter,” Zac says weakly. He doesn’t want to look at it. </p><p>“Yes. It’s addressed to you. You opened it.”</p><p>“I did.” </p><p>“What’s it for?”</p><p>“It’s why they brought me here. To the compound.” as he says it, he remembers the bland wording. Not so much of a request as a demand. They know that he depends on the compound and the military for protection, there are no major cities left safe, the town he’d lived in was overrun, and he’s lucky to be sequestered behind the electric fence, lucky to be a refugee. George regards him with a kind of bored acceptance. Strange, he didn’t even consider lying. He supposes he’s too tired to. He’s too tired for a lot of things.</p><p>“That’s nice.” George responds finally. “What were you?” ‘Were’. Not ‘are’. He supposes it is ‘were,’ because it’s been a long time since he was sitting in his studio, looking over the city. A long time since his biggest worries were getting his psych homework in on time and seeing how many shots he could do without puking.</p><p>“A student. Studying to be uh...behavioral psychologist.” George nods slowly. “You?”  </p><p>“Exchange student. I was doing,” George furrows his brow, as if trying to remember. “Computers. Coding.” Zac raises an eyebrow. For some reason, it never occurred to him that George was an exchange student, despite his faint accent. He’d never thought about George much at all. In fact, he realizes with faint despair, this is the most he’s spoken to George. Ever. God, was he so far gone that he’d completely forgotten the value of human connection? Zac makes a promise to himself that he’s going to be a better person to George. A better roommate. He’s in a foreign country, and probably has no idea if his family’s made it.</p><p>“Do you miss it?” Zac prompts. He doesn’t know what he’s asking about. England? School? The world they used to have when the Creatures were just a far off threat that cropped up in safely quarantined towns that were not their own?</p><p>“No,” George says, noncommittal, and rolls back over. Zac remembers why they never talk. Zac busies himself with cleaning. There’s not much cleaning he can really get done with an old T-shirt and some water, and the dust settles so deeply into the cracks that there’s no real point to it, but he doesn’t want to write anymore papers, and he knows they could use him at the infirmary, but he can’t. Not when his brain spins with the knowledge of The Letter. “Are you going to do it?” George says suddenly, startling Zac. </p><p>“Yes,” He says, the word feels like lead on his tongue.</p><p>“Of course you are.” George hums, shifting about. “Guess you don’t have a choice.”</p><p>Zac’s shoulders ache by the time he deems the smears on the window ‘clean.’ “Suppose I should go tell 'em my answer,” Zac says aloud. He doesn’t expect a response from George, the other had fallen asleep several hours ago. He wants to stall furter. He wants to change his hoodie, take another shower. So he does, and then he’s done. And there’s no other way to stall. </p><p>Zac shoves The Letter into his hoodie pocket, and trudges towards the Office, it used to be the library, biggest building on campus, now where all the grand plans are made. He doesn’t know what they’re planning, what they possibly could be planning, because there’s really nothing left beyond this compound. That thought makes him faintly sick, so he ignores it.</p><p>The bookshelves have been moved to create various makeshift barriers around the building, with papers tacked onto every inch. People in uniforms and white coats swarm around like busy insects, doing god knows what. He doesn’t know what they’re working on, he knows the Office wasn’t this busy last time. </p><p>Zac feels sicker, the longer he walks forward, a bit dizzy, a bit <em> wrong, </em> and that sends a jolt of fear through him. God, <em> god, </em>he doesn’t want to be here. </p><p>“Zac!” The commander waves him over, fully decked out in his camo, overloaded with guns. He looks a bit ridiculous, but if the fence ever failed, he’d probably survive the longest. “Did you get the letter?” <em> Yes, </em> Zac wants to anser. <em> Yes, it’s been weighing on me all day. Yes, it’s crushing me.  </em></p><p>“I did.”</p><p>“And you’re ready to get started?”</p><p>“N-now?” Zac asks, he didn't mean to stutter. He doesn’t want this, not now, not <em> now, </em>he’s not ready. A pale sheen of sweat has coated his face, as he stares at the commander like a frightened animal. </p><p>“Yes, Dr. Soot,” The commander waves one of the men in white coats over, a surprisingly young person, bespectacled and smart seeming. It should bother Zac that it seems nearly everyone is his age, besides some of the older military personnel. But it makes sense he supposes, younger and older people couldn’t survive the second swarm of the creatures, couldn’t move north as the south was overrun. Didn't have anything to offer the government to take them into their compound. Dr. Soot seems to see Zac’s nervousness, and offers him a smile. </p><p>“We won't be working with it today,” he assures Zac. “Just some reading material, some information on their biology to catch you up.”</p><p>“Oh,” Zac says, a wave of relief swallowing him. </p><p>“Why?” The commander interrupts. Dr. Soot looks up sharply, face pinched. Zac gets the feeling he’s not used to being interrupted. </p><p>“W-well, are we trying to understand its natural behavior?” Zac says, glancing between what he is coming to realize are two opposing sides, “or are we just trying to...communicate?”</p><p>“Communicate,” The commander says at the same time Dr. Soot says “Understand.” </p><p>“Communicate,” Dr. Soot corrects himself, glaring at the commander. Zac’s stomach flips. </p><p>“I still need the background,” Zac sighs.. “Motivation, past behavior, different sticks and carrots we can use.” The commander looks confused. </p><p>“Rewards and punishments,” Dr. Soot clarifies. </p><p>“And I need evidence of sentience,” Zac adds. The commander scoffs. </p><p>“They organized and murdered millions, isn’t that enough for you?”</p><p>“No,” Zach says, “it could be instinctual. I need to know this is something I can <em> reason </em>with. To a certain extent.” The commander inhales sharply, but simply clenches his jaw. </p><p>“Fine, do whatever study you need. Dr. Soot’s notes are open to you, but you <em> must </em> complete this research as quickly as possible, time is of the essence.” He walks away stiffly, probably to do some ‘saving the world.’ Dr. Soot sighs heavily.</p><p>”Jonathan’s an idiot.” Zac glances at the man in surprise, confused for a moment before he realizes he’s talking about the commander. You can call me Wilbur by the way.”</p><p>”Thanks,” Zac mumbles, watching Wilbur grab a paper and spread it out on one of the overturned shelves.</p><p>”So this is what we’ve got so far,” Zac leans over Wilbur’s shoulder, examining the paper. There’s a diagram on it, and Zac wants to scream when he sees it. It’s a Creature. One of Them.</p><p>
  <span>His stomach naturally blanches at the sight. It feels wrong to see it so clearly, any interactions he’s had with Them have been blurs. Blurs out of the corner of his eyes, blurs as teeth sunk into flesh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s an ugly motherfucker, isn’t it,” Wilbur says dryly. Zac swallows hard, but suddenly his throat is completely dry. His eyes rake the paper, taking in the mottled skin, the claws, the boils, the red weeping eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” He whispers. He’s tempted to ask if anyone on staff has ever been mauled by the creature, but he realizes it really doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have a choice in working with it. The commander might seem friendly, but he’s used those guns before. “What do we call it? Y’know, besides the ‘creature.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re calling them the incognitum,” Wilbur shrugs. “It’s just Latin for ‘unknown.’ A lot of people don’t want to dignify them with a name.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Makes sense,” Zac said, picking up a page of notes, catching words like ‘possessive,’ ‘too much,’ ‘won’t respond.’ He begins to pace again, before suddenly looking up at Wilbur. “I want to see it,” Wilbur raises an eyebrow in faint shock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure? Don’t you need another moment to look at the notes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not continuing without examining it first, I need to know it will respond to me. At all.” Wilbur seems to consider this for a moment, leaning back deep in thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, I don’t see why not. You’ll be spending a lot of time with it anyway, might as well start now.” Zac feels queasy again, as Wilbur stands and motions for him to follow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Zac follows him to a small auxiliary staircase towards the back of the library. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>here?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He breathes, running a hand over the rusted bannister. Suddenly all the sickness and fear made sense; the incognitum was </span>
  <em>
    <span>right under them.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we’ve reconfigured the basement.” Zac laughs sharply, shaking his head. How fukcing secure could you make the basement of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>library? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Wilbur seems to understand his confusion, and smiles knowingly. “The 80’s man, they were really paranoid about bombs,” Before Zac can ask what he means by that, they come upon a massive steel door. There’s a little keypad next to it, which Wilbur begins tapping away at. “We’ll give you your own code, also pardon the noise, it’s just the generator.” He’s being way too calm, Zac thinks, head spinning. Way too fucking calm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door swings inward, and a faint blue light pervades the end of the stairwell. Wilbur doesn’t wait for Zac to follow, simply forging ahead. Zac takes a moment to steel his nerves, before following the man he’s becoming increasingly sure is completely mad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The awful </span>
  <em>
    <span>feeling </span>
  </em>
  <span>gets worse, making him want to hurl. He’s scared, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrified. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Only shock keeps him rooted in his spot, keeps him from sprinting away. It looks like a lab from one of the movies, one that he saw before the second invasion. There are metal tables everywhere, beakers, papers, dials and buttons that seem too numerous to have a function. White coated scientists swarm at all sides and guards stand to either side of the wall armed to the teeth.. And in the back, a massive glass wall. Instinctually, he chokes with knowledge. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s it. That’s where the danger is. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And he wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>run, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he needs to </span>
  <em>
    <span>run, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but he’s frozen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It gets easier,” Wilbur offers, shaking Zac out of his frozen stupor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m f-fine,” he gasps, clearly not fine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it's all yours.” Wilbur gestures to the cage, and Zac knows it's his job to go forward, that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>offered </span>
  </em>
  <span>to go forward, and interact with it. But he can’t, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his entire body is shrieking at him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>screaming </span>
  </em>
  <span>at him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>run</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get out, to escape. “Zac!” Wilbur says harshly, “snap out of it.” And then Zac thinks of the commander’s gun, a much more concrete threat than this nebulous foe behind the glass. He forces his stiff legs forward, forward, </span>
  <em>
    <span>closer</span>
  </em>
  <span>, despite his hammering heart and howling mind. He stops a foot before the glass, it’s all he can bear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And suddenly it’s in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed to materialize out of nowhere, or maybe he hadn’t been paying attention? His brain is spinning, coming apart, coalescing into a different shape entirely. He’s coming undone at the seams, and all he can do is stare, frozen, at this vision of death in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know what comes over him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really what’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>coming</span>
  </em>
  <span> over him, ever since he entered the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his hand drifts up to rest on the glass. Cool and smooth, staring eye to eye with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ripples of gasps fill the office and Zac gets the impression that he’s done something profoundly stupid. The creature doesn’t seem phased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It cocks its head to the side, almost questioningly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then it mirrors Zac’s action, pressing its hand-like appendage to the glass. Zac doesn’t have time to marvel at this, this almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>human</span>
  </em>
  <span> form of connection, before the creature’s moving again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, not moving. But its skin ripples, every inch of it seems to be remaking itself, cracking into little pieces and reknitting itself. A tan color floods over its rough, black hide. Dark roots spring from its horns, pale, hateful, eyes, become dark and curious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And suddenly Zac isn’t looking at the creature.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s looking at himself. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 1.5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>light</em>
</p><p>
  <em>too much light and sound too much</em>
</p><p>
  <em>too much hurts</em>
</p><p>
  <em>hurts</em>
</p><p>
  <em>they didn’t even know </em>
</p><p>
  <em>they didn’t even know they were hurting</em>
</p><p>
  <em>hurting him did they</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and then </em>
</p><p>
  <em>shadow not really even shadow</em>
</p><p>
  <em>reach for </em>
</p><p>
  <em>reach for another </em>
</p><p>
  <em>another face like them</em>
</p><p>
  <em>them</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Notice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This story will be continued on my account GraniteKelpie !!</p>
  </div></div>
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